Stories
by piratesrcoolerthenninjas
Summary: He recently discovered, if he listens intently, his master likes to tell stories. Stories about a boy hero and his downfall. Undead War AU/slight hints of torture and insanity


The figure huddled in the corner jerks awake with a cough. He shuffles around in the darkness, trying in vain to find some more comfortable position. Finally giving up its futile attempt, the shrunken figure cracks its eyes open, resigned to another day – if it's even daytime – of torment. Waiting. Waiting in the darkness of that tiny room for the monster to come back. Whether to torture him even more or to show some kind of mercy and toss him a scrap of food; it doesn't matter. The monster will be coming back anytime now and the figure curls in on itself, knowing that either way, there will be no end to the torture.  
-

He used to remember why he was here. He used to be brave, proud even. He used to fight back. Now though, now there are only brief flashes which might be memories or might be fantasies planted by his mas- the monster.

A big tower made of metal boxes (Robot?). Flashes of (color?). Red like blood. Yellow like flame. Green like the dimly glowing walls outside his cell. Blue like that sliver of something (sky?) he can just barely see outside his tiny barred window. Black shadow. Something silvery like the metal of those boxes (Super Robot). A swish of pink and green (girl?). He pushes the images away – no point trying to separate fantasy from memory. Not anymore. (Anymore? Was there ever a point to begin with?)

Now, when the monster comes to him he pulls away from the door as far as his chains will let him. He trembles, squeezes his eyes shit, but he never screams. Mast- the monster likes it when he screms Silence is his last defense; the last shred of his pride. He clings to the silence. It is his lifeline. The only thing he can hold on to. He can no longer fight back. He is too weak, to frightened, so the silence will have to do.  
-

Why is he here? What did he do to deserve this? The torture clouds his mind. He can barely remember the flashes of fantasy of life before (Had life before this endless abyss of torment and restless sleep and fantastical illusions even existed?). Should he even bother to figure out his situation? Would knowing why he is a prisoner; why his mas – yes he might as well acknowledge it – why his master enjoys the boy's pain? The boy can't even remember his own name let alone how he came to be here.  
-

He recently discovered, if he listens intently, his master likes to tell stories. Stories about a boy hero and his downfall. Stories about that boy captured and going through things suspiciously similar to what the boy thinks he himself has gone through. These stories his master so enjoys telling him strike a chord, when the boy is lucid enough to understand them.

Other stories make his master angry, and because of that the boy doesn't like them anymore than his master seems to. The boy is usually already in pain when his master tells these particular stories, and hearing them always seems to make the pain worse somehow.

These stories are filled with more people than just the captured hero boy. They contain a girl (Swish of pink and green) and small creatures with weapons for hands (Monkeys? Is that what master called them?) and so many other characters that the sheer numbers overwhelm the boy. But the girl and those monkeys (Yes, master definitely calls them monkeys, he's sure of it!) always stick out. It might be because they are the only constant in master's stories, but the boy is starting to think that's not the case. He finally remembered what master calls the little creatures, after all (Remembered? Why had he forgotten in the first place, anyhow?) It almost feels like…like he knew them somehow too, before. Before the dank cell and the pain and the never-ending fear and the near constant darkness. Before the boy called the monster his master. No, even before he called the monster a monster. The boy is nearly convinced now that there was a before – a time where he was free and unafraid and, yes a time where he had even fought his master (it was true wasn't it?). He hopes the idea hasn't been planted just to toy with him. His master has done it before, and it wouldn't surprise the boy if he does it again.

But still…the feelings he's been getting lately when he heard of the monkeys (he's sure he knows them, without a doubt) and that girl, they have to be real. Why would his master give him happy fantasies instead of nightmarish illusions now, after he's already broken? There would be no point (would there?). So the boy allows himself to cling to that one sliver of hope – the spider's thread of a chance that they find him soon (find him?).  
-

The boy is restless. Something is going to happen today, he can feel it. Not just because his master hasn't come to "visit" him or because the guards are watching the hallway rather than leering at him with their dead eyeless sockets, though they are tip-offs. No. It's the same feeling he gets when his master talks about the monkeys – a buzzing that cuts straight to his bones. Something is different today. He feels…stronger somehow. He thinks today is the day he's been waiting for – the day he'll finally get out of this place. The feeling – the feeling of raw energy spiraling through him, buzzing in his ears and making him feel more alive than he can ever remember feeling – it tells him that this is it. And he wants so badly to believe. But what if whatever this feeling is, it's wrong? Or a trick? What if –

CRASH! BANG!

There's a commotion somewhere outside his cell. What's going on? Was his feeling right after all? Is someone here for him? He sits up straighter, using the wall for support, chains clanking as he forces his wasted body to move. He wants to yell, to rattle his chains, anything to get someone to notice that he's here. But he's too weak and his voice has withered along with the rest of him. All he can do is wait and listen and hope that whoever is here doesn't leave him behind to rot.

As the commotion draws closer, his hope swells, his heart leaps into his throat, energy he hasn't had in a long time comes rushing back to him.

"Hey!" A whisper is all he can manage, but he keeps trying. "In here! Please! Anyone?"

And the noises stop.

There's a bang close by and someone's voice – "Not here!"

Another bang. Another voice floats toward him. "Not here either!"

Are they…they're breaking open the doors. They'll find him!"

He tries again. "In…in here. I'm…right here."

There's a pause. More drawn out than the others.

Then.

"Did anyone else hear that? Or am I losing it?"

"No I heard it too! Sounded like a cat coughin' up a hairball or somethin'."

"An eloquent summation, but that was no cat. Human vocal chords produced that sound, I'll wager. And it came from behind that door."

Footsteps. Growing closer. Closer.

The boy bites his lip. Please. Please open the door. Please.

Another silence. The pauses are beginning to irritate him. Can't they just get on with it? Don't they realize how long he's been here? How long he's been praying for rescue from this horrific place? Then –

"Boom-boom Wake-up!" The door flies open, crashing against the wall, hinges groaning in protest.

The boy blinks rapidly in the sudden intense light he's been deprived of for so long. As his eyes adjust the dark mass in front of him separates, takes on distinct features. Then one figure breaks away from the rest.

"Chiro!"  
-

Author's Note:

Phew. Now that's over with…

I honestly do not know where this came from. One minute I'm thinking up an AU fanfic (but that's another story) and the next, BAM this hits me. Well, it was a few Japanese classes well spent fine tuning this instead of paying attention, in my humble opinion.

So what do you guys think? I'm by no means new to WRITING fanfiction, but I AM new to posting my work for the world to see, rather than just showing my friends and having them pat me on the head and taping my stories to the fridge like the proud parents of a three year old. So I have no idea how this will be received.

A note. This is not my usual style. I don't normally do any stream of consciousness stuff, but it was a nice exercise and kinda cool to do. I think a lot of the style came from Bao Ninh's The Sorrow of Way. Amazing book, glad I read it. If you get the chance, check it out – it's a whole new perspective of the Vietnam war that most Americans are definitely not used to hearing. And it's all in stream of consciousness. So before I make the author's note longer than the fic, I hope you guys liked this! Give me feedback! Good, bad, constructive criticism, hell I'll even take flames, for that matter. I'd just love to know what you think 3


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